Inconvenienced
by RavenclawHobbit
Summary: Because Sherlock Holmes does not get sick. He never gets sick. He does not have time to be sick, and besides, John is obviously overreacting. No pairings, but could be seen as Johnlock if you're trying. Sort of a mixture of fluff, whump and a teeny bit of humor. Readers, reviews and critiques are all much appreciated!
1. In which Sherlock is certainly not sick

**a/n : This entire story was edited & revised ****on 9/30/13, ****a few weeks after its inital publication. If you are a returning reader, you may notice some slight differences, but the plot remains almost entirely the same.**

**I : In which Sherlock is certainly not sick**

John was on the verge of drifting to sleep when he was interrupted by the sounds of footsteps in the hall and the bathroom door slamming. Typical Sherlock to trudge around the flat like an elephant, regardless of the fact that it was 12:45 on a work night. John flipped his pillow over and pressed his face into the cooler side, trying to ignore the noise.

The footsteps marched back to Sherlock's room and the flat was silent once more. It was a humid September night and rain pattered softly on John's window pane. It was too cold for just the sheets but too warm for the blanket. Every twenty minutes or so he was compelled to roll over and either push the covers off or pull them back up again.

The glowing blue numbers of the digital clock read 1:32 when John saw them next. He had finally gotten comfortable with his feet sticking out of the blanket and was dozing contentedly when more heavy footsteps drew his attention. This time he thought he heard other sounds too, almost like coughing—no, more like wheezing. But he chalked it up to sleep deprivation and ordered himself to fall asleep. This was ridiculous. His eyes stung with exhaustion, and he knew he was setting himself up for a pretty miserable day at the surgery tomorrow.

At 4:17, there was so much thumping and slamming of doors that John marveled that all of Baker Street couldn't hear. Convinced that his flatmate was conducting some nocturnal experiment, he wrapped himself in a bathrobe and marched into the hallway, intending to give Sherlock Holmes a piece of his mind.

He found the detective in the hall, flinging things out the coat closet at random and mumbling in frustration. "Sherlock?" John dodged an airborne umbrella and stepped closer. His anger swiftly melted into concern as he took in Sherlock's disheveled hair, red-rimmed eyes, and the fact that he was wearing all his bedclothes wrapped around him like a mantle.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Gotta find 'nother b-blanket." He mumbled through chattering teeth. "'s _freezing_."

John stood up on tiptoe to press the back of his hand to the taller man's forehead. The clammy, hot skin confirmed what he already knew. "You're all feverish, Sherlock, you should go back to bed. I'll find a blanket."

"'m not _feverish_, 's _c-cold_! Gotta tell Mrs. Hudson th' thermostat's broken again."

"No, it's 25 degrees in here and you're shaking like a leaf. Bed. Now."

Sherlock hung his head and shuffled down the hallway, bedclothes trailing behind. Halfway to his room, he appeared to change his mind and hurried in the direction of the bathroom instead.

John sifted through the scattered contents of the closet until he found the green wool blanket that usually lived on the top shelf until the very dead of winter. Ideally, he'd keep looking for something lighter, but it would do for now. He found Sherlock in the bathroom, dry heaving with his arms braced against the toilet. All the footsteps and retching he'd heard earlier suddenly made sense.

"Sherlock, have you been vomiting all night?" He abandoned the blanket and approached. His initial impulse was to rub Sherlock's back comfortingly, but given the detective's usual aversion to unnecessary physical contact, he wasn't sure if Sherlock would find that comforting at all. He settled for a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and a sympathetic frown.

When the heaving subsided, John helped him sit down on the edge of the bathtub and handed him a wet cloth. While Sherlock wiped his face, John took a thermometer out of the cuboard and disinfected it with rubbing alcohol. "Here, hold this under your tongue for me?" Sherlock freed one hand from his collection of sheets and blankets and obliged.

"Must've eaten something bad.." his words were groggy and slurred together.

"Don't talk with that in your mouth, you'll mess up the reading."

Sherlock ignored him and continued mumbling, "You been sick too? Can't think of anything I ate that you didn't. Unless it was the…"

"Sherlock," said John. Sherlock didn't seem to hear. "Sherlock, look at me."

His eyes snapped up to John's face.

"It wasn't something you _ate_. It's not the sodding _thermostat_, you're sick. Surely you can deduce that."

"Am not."

"You are."

"I don't get sick."

John fought the desire to roll his eyes. "_Everybody_ gets sick. Even the Great and Powerful Sherlock Holmes. Now let me see that." The thermometer had just beeped. Sherlock handed it back. "39.3. That's way too high, Sherlock. Let's get you in bed and then I'll get you something for it."

John kept a steadying hand on Sherlock as he wobbled back to his room, and helped him put the covers back on the bed so he could crawl into them. Sherlock sighed contentedly as he lay back and the pain in his head eased a little.

John left and came back with a tall glass of water and box of fever medicine. He popped two tiny red pills out of their aluminium packets and handed them to Sherlock, along with the glass.

"I want you to take those, and as much of the water as you think you can manage."

Sherlock stared at the capsules in the center of his palm, then glanced dolefully up at John. John crossed his arms and put on his very best "doctor face" — kind but stern.

Sherlock downed the pills with a tiny sip, then set the glass on the nightstand as though the thought of drinking more made him feel like vomiting again.

John went back to the bathroom and picked up the green blanket and the dustbin, and carried both back to the bedroom. He set the bin on the floor and folded the blanket up on the foot of the bed so both would be within Sherlock's reach if needed. "Need anything else?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"Come and get me if you decide you do, I'll be—" John suddenly imagined a sick and groggy Sherlock attempting to drag himself up the stairs to John's bedroom. "—I guess I'll be on the couch. And if it's alright, I'll keep this door open so all you'll have to do is call out."

A tiny nod. John turned to leave.

"John?"

"What is it?"

"I'm not sick."

"Good night, Sherlock." John turned off the light with a half smile and crept back to the living room.


	2. Of Tea and Flawed Self-diagnositcs

**a/n : Thank you for all the reviews and love - this is the most reaction I've ever gotten from a fanfic! This fandom does love their sick!Sherlock, that's for certain! Hopefully this chapter will live up to your expectation.**

**II : Of Tea and Flawed Self-Diagnostics**

Sherlock lay awake, studying the ceiling in the dim light. He had once counted every crack in the plaster, but he must have deleted the number because he couldn't remember how many there were. It was useless information, after all, and it also meant he could count them again sometime if he was bored.

He was cocooned in blankets, but suddenly, it didn't seem so deathly cold. In fact, he was starting to sweat. What to do? His head was pounding, he couldn't think straight. He wished John would come back. John had made him feel better before. He felt too tired to speak, but maybe if he thought about John hard enough it could make the man appear.

He began to feel a familiar twisting sensation in his abdomen. He swallowed hard and willed it to go away, although he had learned already tonight that it refused to be put off for long. A sudden lurch made him grope for the dustbin. There was nothing in his stomach this time; he brought up few mouthfuls of brown bile and then dry heaved like his body was trying to turn itself inside out. Foul. And god damn, he was shivering again!

Sherlock tossed and turned in misery for almost twenty minutes, until the medicine seemed to kick in. He observed that the temperature of the room was no longer riding a figurative roller coaster, in fact, he was actually comfortable. Burrowing his face into his elbow, he drifted to sleep at last.

* * *

This was the position in which John found him when he poked his head in at six a.m. Poor Sherlock. Sleep was the best thing for him now. John's own two hours of rest had done little to refresh him. He quietly phoned Sarah at the surgery to explain his absence and curled back up on the couch.

* * *

When Sherlock's eyes opened next, he was thinking more clearly. He quickly deduced by the angle of the sun at the window that it must be around eleven thirty. The events of last night could have been an unpleasant dream, if not for the glass of water on his nightstand and the horrid taste in his mouth.

As he reevaluated the situation, it was evident to him that he was indeed ill. How did this happen? He was always so meticulous about his health. Except, he did tend to go days without eating or sleeping when he was on a case, John nagged him about that a lot. And he spent a lot of his time poking around dead people in all kinds of weather. And John was exposed to various sick people all day and probably came home with lots of germs. But he washed his hands a lot, shouldn't that count for something?

Every muscle in his body ached in protest as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He had to hang on to bedpost to stand, but once he was upright it seemed okay. He began the long march down the hallway to the bathroom, coughing painfully into his fist. He splashed water on his face, took his temperature and brushed his teeth.

John was just sitting down to the turkey sandwich he'd fixed himself for lunch when he heard Sherlock's footsteps. He listened to them shuffling back to the bedroom and decided to go up and check on him before he went back to sleep.

Sherlock had left the door open, and was sprawled across the bed as if his short venture had sapped all the energy out of him.

John peered around the threshold and asked, "How do you feel this morning, Sherlock?"

"Sick." rasped Sherlock. His throat burned when he spoke.

"Let's take your temp, and then maybe something to drink?"

"Just took it. 37.9."

John relaxed visibly. "That's high, but much better than last night. Do you reckon you're up for some juice or tea, then? I'd like to get some fluids into you."

"Not juice." Sherlock shook his head as he imagined how the fruit acid would feel if it came back up his raw esophagus. "Tea?"

John nodded. "I've got the kettle on, it'll just be a tick." He scurried back to the kitchen, and poured a mug of tea from the boiling kettle on the stove. He pondered for a moment, and decided to add honey instead of sugar. Poor Sherlock's thoat sounded painful.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's thoughts had wandered. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been sick like this, and frankly the experience was unnerving. It was as if his own body had betrayed him. The sooner he solved this mystery, he decided, the sooner he could get back to the real mysteries he loved.

"Here you are, Sherlock," John said as he bustled in. Sherlock didn't respond. His eyes were open, but he didn't appear to be seeing the same room as John. He motioned wildly with his hands, deep in thought.

* * *

_Somewhere deep in his mind palace, Sherlock was sifting frantically through cabinet upon cabinet of papers. The room was dusty and framed with cobwebs, clearly he seldom had cause to come here. There were a few shelves devoted to accounts of his childhood illnesses, and the rest was medical information that he had read and stored away a long time ago. There he assessed his list of symptoms against possible diagnoses. It would have been easier if he had more information — he would have to run some tests later — but he managed to narrow it down some._

* * *

John was waiting patiently by the bed. He instantly recognized Sherlock's 'thinking face' and knew well how fruitless it would be to interrupt. Ten minutes passed before Sherlock suddenly sat up and said abruptly,

"John, you would tell me if I was dying, wouldn't you?"

John was completely stunned by this outburst. "_What?"_

"You're a doctor, I'm sure you know it better than me, but I've reckoned I'm either suffering from tuberculosis, influenza, second-stage liver cancer or I'm going into congestive heart failure."

John opened and closed his mouth a few times, grappling for words. "Whoa, Sherlock," he managed at last. "Where did you pull those out of? We have no reason to think—did you say influenza? Yes, that's my guess. In fact yesterday Sally said Greg was home with the flu. Don't you think you might have caught it from him?"

Sherlock cocked his head as he pondered this.

"It's going around, Sherlock, so there's absolutely no reason to scare a man to death by jumping to ridiculous conclusions." John continued in a measured voice. "Did you get a flu shot?"

"No."

"Well, there you are, then.

Sherlock looked almost defensive. "Why, did you?"

"I did last year. I'm not due for this years' for another few weeks."

"Nausea is not a typical symptom of influenza."

"It's not usually present in adults, no, but it's far from unheard of. Now, let's assume it's the flu until we have reasonable suspicion otherwise, mmkay? You're going to feel like crap for four to eight days and then you're going to be fine."

"How can you be sure?"

"I'm not. But it's only logical. If you're truly concerned, you can swab your throat tomorrow morning and I'll test it for you at work."

Sherlock nodded, rubbing his fists into his eyes. He stopped suddenly as if a thought had just occurred to him. "John?" he asked, "Why aren't you at work?"

"I called in, told them I couldn't come today." John shrugged like it was nothing. "Now here, you need to drink something." He held out the tea.

Sherlock smiled as he took the steaming mug into his hands. It wasn't nothing. In his financial situation, John was always eager to work any shift Sarah offered him, but he had given one up just to sit by Sherlock's bedside today. Sherlock had thought more than once this morning that he was fortunate his flat-mate was such a good _doctor_. Now he decided he was more fortunate because his flat-mate was such a good _friend_.

He deliberately met John's eyes for a moment. "Thank you."

A 'thank you' from Sherlock was a rare and heartwarming thing. "You're welcome, Sherlock."


	3. Three times John was a mother hen

**III : Three times John was a mother hen and one time he wasn't**

Sherlock really did loathe to feel dependent. On anyone. But of all the people in the world, he supposed John was the one he'd prefer to be vulnerable in front of. This had become their habit since moving in together; sometimes John depended on him and other times he depended on John. Sherlock was slowly learning to be okay with that.

Sherlock lifted the tea to his nose and inhaled, relishing the feeling as the steam eased the congestion in his sinuses. He tried a little sip and immediately wanted to throw up again. No, no need to upset his already queasy stomach, he decided. He set the tea on a coaster and reached for _The Beekeeper's Bible: Volume IV _off the bedside table.

* * *

John puttered around the flat all afternoon, restless. He knew that Sherlock hated to be fussed over, and so tried to stay out of the way. He occasionally caved and popped in to offer Sherlock more tea or something to eat, or to ask him to check on his fever. Sherlock replied mechanically each time without glancing up from his book.

Around five thirty, John knocked on his door for the third time and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm drinking my tea, I don't want any more tea, I'm not hungry, my temperature was 37.7 a quarter of an hour ago, and 38.3 is the highest it's been all day." He snapped before John had the chance to ask. "Now would you kindly stop mollycoddling, Watson?"

He regretted his tartness almost as soon as John walked away, but he couldn't be bothered to call out after him.

To distract himself, John found little things around the flat to do, like dust the living room or put the heaps of books on the coffee table back on their shelves. Mrs. Hudson had gone to visit her sister for a few days, and it was quite pathetic how the state of the flat had deteriorated since. John felt a little guilty about that, after all, she _wasn't_ their housekeeper.

He was at the kitchen table typing on his laptop when a dull thud resounded from down the hall. He was at Sherlock's door in an instant. Sherlock was sitting on the floor in nothing but his shorts, and looking slightly stunned.

"What did you—"

"Nothing. It was nothing. Just…thought I could stand, is all." In truth, Sherlock was angry with himself for being so helpless. He'd only managed three steps towards the door before wobbling and being forced to sit down hard lest he fall.

"Where were you trying to go?"

"Sitting room. Want my violin, and some ibuprofen. Head's killing me."

Worry suddenly clouded John's eyes. "You didn't hit your head when you fell, did you?"

"I didn't fall, I'm just…having a rest. On my way to the sitting room."

"I see. Can you look me in the eye for just a moment?"

"Christ, John, I'm not _concussed_," Sherlock snapped, glaring daggers at John. He grabbed at the side of the bed and tried to use it to haul himself back up. He was both annoyed and relieved by John's strong hands on his bare torso, lifting him back into bed.

"Now just stay put, alright? You're going to be off your balance for the next few days, and it's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I know that!"

John just smiled, took the glass of water off his nightstand walked away. When he returned, he carried a fresh glass, a bottle of ibuprofen, and (to the detective's delight) Sherlock's violin.

Sherlock reached for the medicine. John wouldn't give him the bottle, but passed him the water and shook two tablets into his outstretched hand. Sherlock swallowed them with a few gulps of water, wincing as they scraped down his scratchy throat. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"No problem," said John, setting the violin down at Sherlock's feet. "Just call me next time, don't hurt yourself."

John returned to his blog. A few minutes later, an angry, sawing tune began from the direction of Sherlock's room. It grew faster and faster and more agitated as he played. Well, maybe it was good if Sherlock felt well enough to be cranky.

After a quarter of an hour, the music stopped mid-stanza and was replaced with the sound of uncontrollable retching. John grimaced at each whimper, wondering if he should go and help. Just as he decided to intervene, the heaving died down. There was a few minutes' pause, then the violin could be heard again. The music continued for nearly an hour and a quarter, until Sherlock appeared to get tired or bored and it was silent once more. John tiptoed down the hall and glanced into Sherlock's room. The detective had nodded off with his bow still in hand, the violin on his lap. John carefully removed both and set them on his dresser without a sound. Before he left, he couldn't resist pressing a hand quickly to Sherlock's forehead. He was feverish. More feverish than earlier? Probably not…but…

_Just listen to yourself, John. He's a grown man. And you're also a grown man for that matter, and not his mother. He'll kill you if you wake him up, and it's 99% sure to be nothing. You wouldn't want to be coddled this way if it were you. You're making a nuisance of yourself._

John forced himself to walk away silently, leaving the door ajar so that only five millimeteres of light shined into the bedroom. As he was leaving, Sherlock's eyes fluttered. Without fully waking, he perceived John for just a moment and smiled, nestling his head into the pillow and falling back into peaceful sleep.

John crept back to the couch and switched on the television, turning the volume nearly all the way down so there was no way it could disturb Sherlock. He tried his best to focus on the program, but he soon felt his eyelids drooping. He closed his eyes for just a moment and it felt like a monumental effort to open them again. He knew it was only five p.m., but didn't fight sleep as it came.

* * *

_He was spinning. The darkness that surrounded him was spinning, he could feel it. He felt strangely disconnected from his brain, as if he might be about to pass out. Or had he already? He remembered — or thought he remembered — falling asleep, but that was hours ago. Did that make this a dream? He didn't know. It was a hot, dry, sticky dream if it was, and he wanted out of it. Except that his limbs felt so heavy. Everything was heavy. He couldn't even summon the strength to sit up. What was going on?_

* * *

John rolled off the sofa at eight and decided he would move back to his own bedroom. Sleeping on the lumpy couch made his back ache, and it wasn't as if he wouldn't be able to hear from up there if Sherlock called out. He turned off the telly while stifling a yawn and started down the hall with the intention of checking on Sherlock one last time. The door had blown shut by the breeze from the window. He turned the handle as quietly as he could and pushed the door open.

He was completely unprepared for what he found inside.

Sherlock was as white as the sheets, which were tangled around him restraining his legs. He would lie very still for several moments, then toss or turn with the tiniest of moans, and lines of anguish would furrow on his brow.

John hurried to his side. He murmured soothingly as he peeled off the sheets—he quite literally had to peel them off, as they were soaked through with cold sweat. And yet, Sherlock didn't appear to be sweating anymore. His skin was quite dry to the touch. And warm, his fever had definitely escalated. He pressed two fingers to the inside of Sherlock's wrist. His pulse was rapid and weak, so that John thought absurdly of a mouse's heartbeat. He glanced at the bedside table with a sinking feeling in his stomach. The mug of tea sat there, stone cold and full nearly to the brim. How long since Sherlock had had any fluids at all, then? 30 hours, at least. And with vomiting and fever on top of that?

"Sherlock?" John shook his shoulder gently, wondering if he should call an ambulance. Sherlock would never forgive him if he did, but if John couldn't rouse him he would have no choice. "Sherlock!"


	4. Sugar and Salt

**A/N: I upped the rating to T because of the angst in this chapter, but that's just to be extra-extra-safe ;)**

**IV : Sugar and Salt**

"Sherlock!" John shook Sherlock's shoulder a little harder this time.

Sherlock opened his eyes halfway. "J'hn…" he mumbled around a very swollen tongue. "J'hn, it was th' cabbie. He…you…you shot th' cabbie?"

"Shhh, never mind that." John soothed. He could feel Sherlock's heartbeat palpitating. He knew what would be the best course of action, obviously, and he steeled himself for the inevitable argument.

"Sherlock," he waited until Sherlock's eyes were focused on him and listening. "Sherlock, I want to take you to the hospital."

"No." Sherlock tried to pull his arm from John's grasp.

"You're dehydrated. Severely. Sherlock, this could be dangerous if we don't do something about it _right now_. And it would be a hell of a lot easier if we could get you on an IV drip."

He shook his head vehemently. "No…no, I w'nt let you.." His eyes were wide. He seemed to be using all his feeble strength to try and squirm away. John's heart was torn. Could he handle this on his own? What if he couldn't? But could he physically drag Sherlock into an ambulance? Probably not. And would it be right to deliberately go against his friend's wishes? And who knew what the stress would do to Sherlock in this state?

A man of action, John weighed all these thoughts and made his mind up in an instant. "Alright," he said cautiously. "Alright, we're going to stay here. Sherlock, calm down. Can you sit up?"

Sherlock, as it happened, could not sit up without John nearly lifting him. Every time he tried, he felt a shooting pain like he'd been stabbed in the head.

"Okay, just…um, there." Said John awkwardly as he eased Sherlock back against the headboard. He didn't need the thermometer to tell him that Sherlock's fever was dangerously high, probably even higher than the first night. "Alright, Sherlock, I'm going to have to leave you for just a minute, and I'll be right back." Said John.

"John, 'm…" How to describe this feeling? His thoughts were all muddied. "John, 'm really _thirsty_."

John frowned. "I'm sure you are. Now I'll just be in the kitchen, but I need you to stay awake for me. Do you think you can do that?"

He waited for Sherlock to nod his understanding, then fairly sprinted across the flat and snatched a measuring cup out of the kitchen cabinet. He precisely measured six teaspoons of sugar into it. Then he stood up on tiptoe to the cupboard above and flung it open so violently that a spice jar of parsley thudded onto the counter. Ignoring it, John reached for the canister of table salt and added half a teaspoon of that to the sugar. He ran the tap until the water was cool but not cold, and filled the cup to the 1-litre line. He stirred it with a spoon and poured it into a drinking glass, then rushed back to Sherlock's room.

His heart jumped into his throat when he saw Sherlock lying down and appearing to have passed out again, but the detective's eyes opened a fraction as he heard John approach.

"Here you are, Sherlock," John sat down on the edge of the bed. "This'll help you feel better. Little sips at a time, okay?"

Sherlock took the glass and it immediately slipped from his trembling fingers. John's hand was right there to steady it. Together they slowly brought the glass to Sherlock's lips and Sherlock swallowed a tiny mouthful. He paused to breathe and then took a second sip. They fell into a pattern; inhale, exhale (John was very careful not to let him breathe in the liquid), sip, swallow, repeat. Thirty minutes and half a litre later, Sherlock had to stop to vomit violently into the dustbin.

"There now, you're alright, Sherlock," John helped him sit back up. "We're going to wait about ten minutes before we try again. Why don't you sit tight while I mix up some more solution?"

John came back with a second litre in the measuring cup and set it on a coaster. When ten minutes was up, he offered Sherlock the glass again, but Sherlock shook his head. "Jus' make it worse," he grumbled.

"No, it's helping, Sherlock. Even if you spit it back up, a lot of the liquid will still have absorbed into your body."

Sherlock looked unconvinced.

"It's normal to feel nauseous at first. It'll only last for the first hour or so if you keep drinking."

"What is it?"

"Sugar for carbohydrates, salt for electrolytes, and water. To replace the nutrients you've lost sweating and throwing up the past two days. That's why you feel so ill right now, you haven't got enough fluids in your body. _"Even though I_ warned _you._ _And you _lied _to me about how much you were drinking._ He added silently. There was anger there, for sure, but for the moment it was buried in concern.

Sherlock allowed John to raise the glass to his lips again. When Sherlock had drained the glass (and vomited twice more), John refilled it from the measuring cup. The second dose took longer, since Sherlock insisted on feeding it to himself while John looked on anxiously. Sherlock's movements were slow and painful and he swatted John's hand away when the doctor offered help, but at least he managed to keep it down.

"Can I see your arm?" John asked. He found Sherlock's pulse again and was pleased with the strength that had returned to it, though it was still faster and weaker than he would have liked. He glanced at the clock. Midnight. It had been nearly four hours.

John heaved a sigh of relief. "I think you can switch to plain water now, Sherlock. And here, you should take these," Now that Sherlock's stomach seemed more settled, John felt comfortable giving him the fever pills. He handed two of them over and Sherlock swallowed them without complaint.

John fished around in the refrigerator for a water bottle, trying pointedly not to look at the Ziploc baggie of unknown contents sitting on top of the yoghurt. Undoubtedly odds and ends from human remains, if past experience had anything to tell (He would have to ask Sherlock what to do about them later, lest they rot before their owner was well enough to continue his experiment).

He had just located a water and was reaching for it when there came a knock on the threshold of the staircase that led up from the flat below.

"Who's there?" called John over his shoulder.

Familiar footsteps walked in. "It's Mrs. Hudson, dear, I saw the lights on, figured you boys were up on some case again!"

Water bottle in hand, John shut the fridge and entered the living room.

"I just got home - there's been a traffic accident on Little Compton Street, it took forever to get through," she was saying. "What's Lestrade got Sherlock into now? I heard there was a pretty dodgy house fire last week, they can't figure out how it started…"

"He's sick," John explained.

"Oh, poor boy! Not badly?"

"No, not badly. It was just a flu, of course until the bloody idiot let himself nearly pass out from dehydration."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and tutted. She followed John to Sherlock's bedroom.

Upon entering, John handed Sherlock the water bottle and said, "There. You don't need to sip constantly anymore, Just remember to keep drinking, even if you don't feel thirsty. It's going to take you a day or so to get a normal balance of fluids back."

Sherlock grunted and set the bottle nonchalantly beside him without even bothering to open it. John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock pulled a face. John crossed his arms.

"Oh, poor Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson broke the tension by perching on the edge of the bed and taking Sherlock's hand into hers. "Oh, you're quite feverish, aren't you?"

"Yes, he's had medicine for it." John was still glaring at Sherlock, who was still looking obstinate. Mrs. Hudson picked up the water bottle, unscrewed the cap with a flick of her wrist, and handed it firmly to Sherlock. He obediently took a long drink. John rolled his eyes.

"You can go on to bed if you want, John, I can stay here," Mrs. Hudson said. "I know you have work in the morning."

"Oh, no," said John, "I was thinking I'd stay home one more day, just to be sure—"

"Nonsense!" Mrs. Hudson wouldn't hear of it. "We're perfectly capable of managing, aren't we, Sherlock? And we'll call you if we need you back here. Now, bed, young man!"

She gave John a good-natured pat on the back and essentially shooed him out of the room. He wasn't sure whether to be exasperated or amused.

"You're awfully good to my Sherlock, John Watson." She said kindly once they were out in the hall. "He does need someone to look after him sometimes."


	5. Not Your Babysitter

**V: Not your Babysitter**

"Good morning, John," said Mrs. Hudson with a cheery wave as John climbed the stairs down to the kitchen.

"'Morning," John yawned as he got out a bowl to pour himself some cereal. "Mrs. H, did you stay here all night?"

"Well, Sherlock drifted off to sleep within the hour, poor thing, he was exhausted. So once he was settled I just catnapped on the couch for a bit, checking on him every so often."

"It was really good of you to do that, thank you."

"Don't thank me, dear, I think we both have a soft spot for that boy." They both jumped as the toaster popped up on the counter. "He hasn't thrown up in a solid 8 hours, so I convinced him to try a bit of toast."

"That's good." John smiled. "That's really good."

John finished his breakfast before he popped in to see Sherlock, who was nibbling the crust off a piece of dry toast. He alternated bites with long sips of water.

"Morning, Sherlock, feeling any better?" John asked. He was still frustrated because of last night, but he held his tongue since the rational side of his brain told him it really wasn't 100% Sherlock's fault.

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. In truth, his stomach was feeling worlds better and the headache had somewhat receded, but his muscles were still aching and he couldn't breathe through his nose at all. And he'd been coughing with a vengeance. Not that he felt inclined to express any of that verbally.

John tried again. "I'm glad to see you eating something. I take it you're stomach's not bothering you anymore?"

"You're angry."

The statement caught John off guard. "What?"

"Your brow creases like that and you talk funny when you're angry, even when you're trying to hide it." Sherlock observed. "I've been trying for a few minutes, but I can't deduce what for."

John was, in fact, angry. And once Sherlock brought it up, it proved too much to bite back.

"What for?" John was deliberately not shouting, but his voice came out sharper than he intended. "You could have _died_ last night, Sherlock, and you're damn lucky Mrs. Hudson and I were around or you would have. I _told you and told you and told you_ how important it was for you to drink!"

"And in return I reminded you kindly not to badger me." Sherlock snapped.

"But I was right, wasn't I?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his expression had softened. "And I told you off for nagging, then ignored the advice. I see." He paused thoughtfully. "But what you're really upset about is the incident, not the fact that it could have been prevented."

"Well, yes, I guess so. I was scared, Sherlock."

"Why? Anything that came of it would have been my own fault entirely."

"Because I care about you, you great idiot! We're friends, remember? We look out for each other."

Sherlock tilted his head like a confused dog. "Oh. I'm sorry I scared you."

John's resolve crumbled. "It's alright. You were ill, and you weren't thinking your best. Just forget it."

Mrs. Hudson came bustling in and deposited John's coat into his lap. "Somebody's going to be late for work if he doesn't hurry!" she said with a wink.

"Thanks, Mrs. H." John put the coat on and turned to Sherlock again. "Are you sure you can manage alone all day?" he asked for the umpteenth time.

"I am not a child. Nor am I going to be alone," Sherlock said peevishly.

"You have to promise to text me if you need me for anything. I'll keep my mobile on. And for god's sake, take care of yourself."

"We'll be fine, dear, you'll see." Mrs. Hudson assured him.

"Oh, and wait!" Sherlock called. "You said you'd take a throat swab to test for me. To make sure it's really the flu?"

* * *

It was actually twenty minutes late that John got out the door, but he figured Sarah would understand that his first and most important patient of the day was not at the hospital.

Sarah was glad to have him back, as they were a bit understaffed, and John was busy all day. This was good, because it left him little time to worry about Sherlock. At first, he was alarmed every time his mobile vibrated, but he quickly learned that a text from Sherlock did not necessarily indicate a catastrophe at 221B. Perhaps he should have shut off his phone like usual, and left the office number with Mrs. Hudson for emergencies.

**Bored.  
****SH****  
**

**How late are you working today?  
****SH****  
**

**You take forever to respond, you know.  
****SH****  
**

**Can only check texts between patients. Working til five, just like any other day. -JW**

**Routine. How dull.  
****SH****  
**

**I call it **_**relaxing**_**, myself. **_**Predictable**_**. –JW**

**BORING.  
****SH****  
**

**Rapid Influenza test positive. So much for your liver cancer theory. –JW**

**Oh, good.  
****SH****  
**

**John, my head hurts again.  
****SH****  
**

**John, I can't even breathe.  
****SH****  
**

**Both nostrils completely congested, John. Can't breathe.  
****SH****  
**

**Try some Lemsip then. –JW**

**Can't get Lemsip, feel dizzy when I try to stand.  
****SH****  
**

**Ask Mrs. Hudson. –JW**

**She went downstairs for a few minutes.  
****SH****  
**

**Then breathe through your mouth for a few minutes. –JW**

There was about an hour's reprieve, and then,

**Don't have a big lunch, John, Mrs. Hudson's making chicken soup :)  
****SH****  
**

**You must really be sick, if you're suddenly using smiley faces. –JW**

**:) :) :)  
****SH****  
**

**Think you could pick up some soda crackers on your way home?  
****SH****  
**

**And ginger ale? We're out.  
****SH****  
**

**Please?  
****SH****  
**

**Yes, alright. –JW**

**John, there is NOTHING good on TV at two in the afternoon. NOTHING.  
****SH****  
**

**Sherlock, can you please only text me if you need my help with something? I am trying to work. –JW**

**I do need help. I'm bored. You took all the bullets out of my gun.  
****SH****  
**

**Yes, for the sake of the wall and everyone's sanity. –JW**

**JOHN.  
****SH****  
**

**BORED.  
****SH****  
**

**I am going to stop responding to anything that's not a dire emergency. Just play your violin or read a damn book or something. –JW**

**Sorry, John.  
****SH****  
**

**John?  
****SH****  
**

**John? I'm still bored.  
****SH****  
**

A part of John really wanted to shut the phone off completely then, but he didn't dare. He pointedly ignored the unwavering flood of useless texts and tried to get on with his day. It seemed to drag on forever. Just as he was packing up his things at quarter to five, he got tied up with some paperwork and was compelled to stay another half an hour to complete it.

**John? It's 5:24 and I know your ride home is habitually under ten minutes. Explain.  
****SH****  
**

**Hold your horses, had to finish something. Now on my way to Tesco for soda crackers, be home soon. –JW**

**Don't forget ginger ale.  
****SH****  
**

John was halfway home with a plastic shopping bag containing soda crackers, a six-pack of ginger ale and milk when something reminded him of Sherlock's comment about having nothing to watch on TV. On a whim, he asked the cabbie to stop at the library. He emerged 15 minutes later with the first two Pirates of the Caribbean movies in hand. (They had been flipping through channels one evening when The Curse of the Black Pearl was on, and John had discovered that Sherlock had not outgrown all aspects of the pirate obsession Mycroft had once alluded to.)

**John? Come on?  
****SH****  
**

**Sorry. Almost there now. –JW**

John let himself into the flat and was greeted by a "Shhhh!" as he mounted the stairs.

"What?"

"You're stepping too loud." Said a plaintive voice from the fortress of quilts arranged on the couch. Sherlock was enveloped in blankets and propped up with multiple pillows, lying back with a cold compress on his forehead. The coffee table was littered with various objects that pretty much told John the story of Sherlock's day: a tissue box, the telly remote, three different books, a bottle of pain pills, the thermometer, an empty mug and bowl.

"Headache again, is it?" asked John, patting Sherlock's knee sympathetically. A pathetic groan answered.

"John, you're home! We were starting to wonder." Said Mrs. Hudson. "Somebody's been missing you, I think." She glanced fondly towards the couch. "All's well here."

"Some definition of 'well' you have, Mrs. Hudson."

"Now Sherlock, it's not that bad. In another hour you'll be able to take another Ibuprofen." She brushed a curl out of his eyes and readjusted the cold compress. "Busy day, was it, John?"

"A little busy, yeah."

Sherlock peeked one eye out from underneath the damp cloth and eyed the grocery bag in John's hand. "Ginger ale?" he asked hopefully.

"Mmmhmm." John handed him a bottle and was rewarded with a grateful smile.

"Oh, and those inspectors from Scotland Yard phoned twice," Mrs. Hudson continued. "Sherlock was asleep the first time, and the second time he refused to talk to them."

"Because it was Anderson." Sherlock whined. "Lestrade's still home sick."

Mrs. Hudson ignored him with an expression that suggested she'd had this argument more than once before. "Maybe you ought to ring them back later, John, it sounded important."

"Thanks, I will. Not that Sherlock is in any state to go dashing off to a crime scene at the moment."

"Watch me!" Sherlock peeled the compress off his forehead and started to sit up.

"Oh, no you don't." John pushed him back down with one hand. He sensed the futility of a 'You're not well enough' argument and tried to appeal to Sherlock's detective side. "You haven't even heard about the case yet. How do you know it's not another one of the boring ones'?"

"Anything's more interesting than the inside of this flat." He declared. But sitting up seemed to have aggravated his headache. "That's it, I'm taking more Ibuprofen." He hauled himself into a sitting position and reached for the bottle on the coffee table.

"Stop right there," John ordered. "Mrs. Hudson, when did you say he last had it?"

"About one o'clock."

"Then definitely not."

Sherlock scowled.

* * *

All the lights were out in 221B. The headlights of cars below cast passing lights across the walls. Sherlock and John's living room was intermittently lit by the flickering television. John was just finishing the last of his tea and observing that Sherlock had fallen asleep with his face half-burrowed into a pillow.

"But…but why's the rum gone?" demanded a half-drunk Jack Sparrow on the screen, flapping his arms dramatically at Elizabeth.

A tiny chuckle came from the pile of blankets on the couch. So, perhaps not asleep after all.


	6. Of Undue Panic and Borderline Sentiment-

**VI: Of Undue Panic and Borderline Sentimentality**

Sherlock was deeply annoyed when he awoke on the couch.

He was annoyed that he wasn't in his bed. He was annoyed that his internal clock hadn't woken him up at his usual time. He was extra annoyed because the pain was still there. It was most acute in his head and joints, but every muscle he moved caused a dull ache to shudder up his spine. _Myalgia, _his brain supplied. _Diffuse or nonspecific muscle pain from a wide range of causes, commonly viral infections such as influenza._

_Shut up, _he told it.

He remembered arguing with John the previous evening, wasn't there something he could do? He didn't have time for this…this…_inconvenience_. John was a doctor, he ought to fix it. That's what doctors do. Just prescribe some antibiotic or other and have done with it.

Flu is a virus, not a bacteria, John had said, so antibiotics were utterly useless. He trusted Sherlock knew that much. He was welcome to take ibuprofen or a similar over-the-counter drug to treat the symptoms if he liked, but the best medicine, John had said, was fluids and bed rest. Well, Sherlock had tolerated that for a whole entire day and it still hadn't goddamn worked.

"Good morning, Sherlock, how are you feeling?" Mrs. Hudson came bustling into the living room.

How exactly did she think he was feeling? It took him great personal effort not to say something terse in return. In the end he just shrugged, and Mrs. Hudson seemed to get the idea.

"'s John?" he asked.

"John left for the surgery nearly an hour ago, love."

So. As he'd suspected, he'd slept in. This was unacceptable. His body usually ran like clockwork.

"Breakfast?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Mmpff." Said Sherlock into his pillow. Meaning, no.

"Well, you let me know when you get hungry, then. Oh, and John said to check your temperature, and take two more acetaminophen if it's over 39 degrees."

When Mrs. Hudson left, Sherlock grudgingly stuck the thermometer under his tongue and searched for his mobile to send John a text while it registered. It beeped while he was waiting for John's reply. He was running a fever of 39.4. He scanned the coffee table for the box of red pills, but it wasn't there. Well, the fever wasn't really that high. Close enough, anyway. He braced both arms against the back of the sofa and summoned the effort to stand.

His back cricked painfully as he straightened up, and he immediately felt as though the room were spinning. _Mind over matter_, he reminded himself, and propelled himself down the hall on what seemed to be sheer willpower. Once he reached his bedroom, he wrenched open the top bureau of his dresser and destroyed its fastidious organization system as he pawed around for a comfortable t-shirt and sweatpants. He set them on top, imagining how nice it would feel to have fresh clothes…but come to think of it, that all sounded like a lot of effort. And he felt like maybe he wouldn't mind so much if he could just curl up in his bed. Someone had put fresh sheets on it. He suspected John. He lowered himself onto the mattress with considerable effort and heaved a sigh of relief.

How long he lay there, Sherlock didn't know. He napped on and off, but mostly just stared at the ceiling, leafed through _The Beekeeper's Bible_ without really reading it, and texted John a few times. To his great frustration, the doctor never replied.

Mrs. Hudson, it turned out, was even worse than John when it came to hovering. Sherlock grumbled convincingly when she fussed over him, and he truly did despise being the object of anyone's concern or pity, but a deep and well-repressed part of his psyche was comforted to know that someone was taking care of him, the way his mother and brother had nursed him through his few childhood illnesses. One particular case of chicken pox came to mind, when Mycroft had spent every possible moment by his side, even begging their parents' leave to stay home from school. Luckily, thoughts of 11-year-old Mycroft quickly summoned thoughts of present-day Mycroft, and turned the entire reverie sour before he could get too sappy. He blamed his momentary sentimentality on the fever.

After that, Sherlock returned to his book with renewed enthusiasm, as if eager to banish his previous thoughts even farther. His eyelids grew heavy after a while, and it became hard to focus. He abandoned it and returned to his phone. After his seventh text had been ignored for over an hour, Sherlock even tried calling John's number, but a mechanical female voice told him the 'number was unavailable'. Ah, so he'd turned it off. Git.

At lunchtime, Mrs. Hudson reappeared for the umpteenth time, looking a trifle concerned. "Sherlock, love, you haven't eaten at all – are you sure I can't tempt you with some chicken soup? It'll just take a minute to heat it up."

Sherlock smiled. "That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson returned minutes later with a bowl of soup and a glass of ginger ale on a tray. The soup was hot, but not hot enough to burn his tongue, and she'd even put a little stack of soda crackers on the side. He'd been telling her yesterday as he texted John about them that he loved to dunk them in soup — he always submersed them for exactly seven seconds to get it sufficiently moist but not soggy. _Ah, bless Mrs. Hudson…_

Sherlock had to admit, he felt much better with a full stomach. Any lingering nausea from the past two days had dissipated now, and although he ate less than most people on a regular day (such a boring task, eating. It was a poor use of his valuable time, and yet one necessary for the continuation of existence.) he found that he was actually hungry. And having eaten, he felt well enough perhaps even to play his violin.

Mrs. Hudson fetched it off the dresser for him, and although his stiff fingers protested, and his song was interrupted by the occasional loud, wet coughing fit, he forced himself to play, and soon found solace in a spritely tune. Achiness (nearly) forgotten, he made his way through the classical pieces he knew by heart, then digressed into an original composition, slow and thoughtful, which brought a grin to Mrs. Hudson's face.

Just as he had the first night, playing and thinking tired Sherlock more quickly than he'd have anticipated. Being sick took a lot out of you. Being sick was stupid. He was forced to put the bow down when he could no longer keep his eyes open. God, why did he have to _sleep_ so much?

"I think I'll—" Sherlock yawned, which made him cough hard enough to see stars out of the corners of his eyes. Mrs. Hudson rubbed his back while he caught his breath and the pain in his chest subsided. "I think I'll go back to bed for a little while. Do you think you could wake me up when John comes home?"

"Of course, Sherlock. Sweet dreams, now." Mrs. Hudson flicked off the light as she left.

* * *

Sherlock woke up drenched and shaking. Fear struck right to his heart, a human weakness he was supposed to be immune to. But his thoughts kept swirling back to the scorching heat, and the acetaminophen he was supposed to have taken earlier. He was sweating enough he could probably wring out his pillow, and his heart pounded wildly in his ears. He did the only thing he could think of.

"JOHN!"

* * *

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson can't come to the phone right now." Said the young girl at the receptionist's desk, fiddling with a pen in her hands. John heard his name as he walked down the corridor and froze.

"No, I'm sorry ma'am, can I take a message for you?...Ma'am, if it's that urgent, I can forward you to an emergency call centre…"

"Let me talk," John was behind the desk in an instant, gesturing for the receiver. The girl handed it over.

John put the phone to his ear. "What's the matter?" he asked without preamble.

"Don't panic, John, I don't know," Mrs. Hudson was saying, "Just that Sherlock woke up quite feverish and upset. He wouldn't tell me if anything was wrong, he just kept asking for you."

"Could you put him on?"

There was static on the other end as the phone changed hands, then Sherlock's voice,

"John, what's wrong with me?"

John could hear the fear in his voice. Most unusual for Sherlock. He kept his own voice light for Sherlock's sake. "Well, I have no way to know. Symptoms?"

"Same as before: fatigue, congestion, myalgia, coughing and a high-grade fever – Except now I'm sweating fit to melt and my heart rate is fast and I feel like I'm sitting in an oven."

John let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "That's all?"

"Yes. Do you know what it means?"

"Sherlock, you're fever's probably breaking. You feel really hot and sweaty as it comes down because your body's trying desperately to cool off."

"Is that good news?"

"That's very good news."

"Oh."

"I'll turn my mobile back on, why don't you text me if you don't feel better in an hour or two?"

"Okay," Sherlock sounded humiliated.

"Hey, I'd rather you call me for nothing than keep quiet and end up really needing help," John reasoned. "Just make sure you drink extra, since you're losing water by sweating."

"I _am_. Contrary to what you and Mrs. Hudson seem to believe, I don't wish to repeat Wednesday night either." There he was. John was surprised how reassured he felt to hear Sherlock sneer.

By the time John returned, Sherlock was eating a popsicle and watching _Dead Man's Chest_ for the third time since John rented it yesterday. His temperature was normal at last, and John decided their troubles were nearly over.

**A/N: Dun dun dun…I have 1-2 more plot twists to throw at these guys before they are as recovered as John thinks they are. No worries, however, true to the nature of this fic, it will remain fluffy with only light angst. I foresee it being about 10 chapters in its entirety. **

**I really do appreciate all the loving support and especially the constructive criticism I have received from some of you. So thank you again!**


	7. Of Stolen Cars and Definitely Not Crying

**VII : Of Stolen Cars and Definitely Not Crying**

"No."

"Why not?" whined Sherlock, bringing to mind a primary school child.

"No."

"But I talked to the Yard and—"

"No." _Honestly_, John thought, _he must have been a terror when he was a toddler._

Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest and scowled. He had slept on the couch again; he'd fallen asleep in front of the telly and John hadn't had the heart to wake him. "My temperature has been normal for 10 hours, John."

"That doesn't automatically make you healthy. How are the rest of your symptoms?"

"Better."

"Are you sure you're not just saying that?"

"This headache is clearly caused by a lack of mental stimulation. And the stuffy air in this flat is aggravating my sinuses."

"All right, I'll pretend to believe that." John hadn't missed the way Sherlock held his head at an angle and shook it periodically with a grimace, as if it were an effort to keep alert. Nor the excruciating deliberation in his every move, even if it was just readjusting the blanket. He had a sneaky suspicion that his flat mate was in more pain than he let on. "Why don't you march on back to your room and put something decent on, then? You can't go gallivanting about in a dressing gown."

"Why not?" Sherlock snapped.

"Because you're a grown man?" John suggested.

"That's an invalid argument."

John folded his arms neatly and waited. Slowly, Sherlock got to his feet. John offered a hand for him to grab, but he didn't take it. When he was standing upright, he paused for a moment with two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. With a deep breath and a prideful scowl, he dragged his feet in the direction of the bedroom with John on his heels. His steps were haggard like a drunk's. As they passed the hall closet, Sherlock lost his footing and would have crashed to the floor had John not grabbed him by the elbow.

"Ah, I don't think you'll be going to Scotland Yard today, Sherlock." Said John. He sighed. He had called Sherlock's bluff completely, but there was no sport in it. "Come on, now. Bed."

"Bed is…dull." He let John walk him to his room. He'd never tell John, but he felt so much better lying down. Ugh, between the pain and the sense of helplessness, it was enough to bring tears to the corners of his eyes. How irksome. He blinked them away.

"But what about the case, John?"

"Damn the case. Your well-being is more important."

"But I'm bored. Dead bored. Your unexceptional brain cannot even begin to comprehend how desperately bored I am. Bored enough to…"

No. Not bored enough to cry. God, what was the matter with him today? He just felt…sick.

"Well," Sherlock could read in John's face that he was turning some plan over in his mind. "I could always go to the crime scene, and leave you here with the laptop. You know, the way we did the morning before Buckingham..."

Sherlock's stormy expression grew hopeful in a flash. "Do you think that could work?"

"Only if you stay in bed," John said.

"Don't tell me what to-"

"And tell us if you need a break. Resting is more important than deducing."

"I've already rested more this week than the entire-"

"And follow my instructions?"

Sherlock snorted. "Well, that wholeheartedly depends on what your instructions entail."

"I'll leave you with everything you might need within reach, but you'll have to take care of yourself, because Mrs. Hudson's busy today. And don't fight to stay awake if you're tired, sleep is good for healing. Remember that."

"Be assured, Dr. Watson, that I could never be kept awake by something as menial as talking to you over the internet." But Sherlock was smiling. Finally, a case. "Lestrade said to be over there at noon."

So when John had made Sherlock tea and set tissues, the medical kit, the phone, the thermometer, water, four books, Sherlock's violin, and everything else he could think of on the bedside table, and reminded Sherlock a dozen times to keep hydrated and listen to his body and rest if he needed to, John was finally ready to leave. Sherlock had scribbled the address on a scrap of paper.

_London Motor Museum_

_3 Nestle's Ave, Hayes, Middlesex, UK_

When John stepped out of the cab in front of the museum, he pulled his laptop out of its case and flipped it open. It took him a minute to set up the connection with Sherlock.

"Ah. So there you are. What took you so long?"

"Just traffic. Hey, is your laptop camera working?"

"Perfectly."

"Um, I'm hearing your voice, but my screen is completely black. Can you see me?"

"Of course I can see you." Sherlock scoffed like it should have been obvious. "You are unable to see me because a piece of sellotape is obstructing my camera lens."

"May I ask why?"

"No, you may not."

Typical Sherlock. Too proud to let the officers see him sick, probably. John supposed he didn't blame him – no one really wants to be seen in one's pajamas, nose running, hair unwashed. He still felt pretty foolish talking to the black screen, though.

"Aren't you going inside?"

"Oh. Right." John crossed the street to the angular brick building with cars lined up out front, and pushed on the heavy glass doors They were locked. He saw people inside, so he rapped hard on the glass with his knuckles. Someone saw him, and he watched her shout over her shoulder something he couldn't make out. Moments later, a stern-faced security guard strode to the door, fumbling with a ring of keys. Sally was following behind him.

"Yeah, they're with us," she was saying as the guard pushed open the door. She glanced around John, as if expecting Sherlock to be hiding behind a potted plant. "What, no freak today?"

"Right here, Sargent Donovan," came Sherlock's voice from the laptop. "How are things with Anderson?"

Sally pulled a face and led John inside to where a group of officers stood around looking at a loss. Lestrade brightened up when he saw them. John was surprised to see him, and noted that the tip of his nose was bright red like he'd been rubbing at it.

"Oh, wonderful. We could use the help. Any theories as to where they went?"

Sherlock hadn't actually told John anything about the case. "Um, sorry," he said, "But what happened?"

"All the cars on display at there are privately owned, you know," Sherlock's voice was impatient, albeit croaky.

"My God, you sound _horrible_," blurted out Anderson.

"So do you, but happily illness is more curable than general stupidity. John, two days ago three of the most valuable cars in this museum were stolen, and their owner subsequently disappeared. I imagine Lestrade & Company believe they have scoured this garage sufficiently for evidence, but would you be so kind as to angle your screen so that I can examine the floor where the first car was parked?"

Lestrade showed him where to point the laptop. "Sick, is he?" he asked John so that Sherlock couldn't hear.

"Yes, we think he just caught that flu from you. He's been laid up since Tuesday night."

"Blimey, that's weird. Like, I never really imagined he _could_ get sick. He always seems so…"

"I know."

Sherlock instructed John to show him the rubbish bin under the reception desk, the security cameras in the garage, and six or seven other things that seemed irrelevant, but John didn't question him. He could tell from Sherlock's tone that he was annoyed at having to explain his thought process to John – less impressive that way, probably. He couldn't show off by pulling some grand conclusion out of the blue.

After an hour and a quarter, Sherlock asked Lestrade if they'd searched the missing man's house yet. They hadn't. Sherlock announced that they would find their answers there, and promptly shut off his computer.

"What was that about?" grumbled Anderson.

"Got tired, probably. I did tell him to nap." John shrugged. "He's slept a lot the past few days."

"Well," Lestrade was looking something up on his phone. "It says here the owner of the cars lives in Dartford – but it's too late to set out today. Wanna come get some coffee with us, John?"

"Sure,"

They talked and laughed over coffee, and John was reminded that Sherlock was not the only one who'd been pretty much cooped up in the flat since Tuesday. It felt good to get out and have a little fun – though he did check his mobile every five minutes or so, in spite of Sally's teasing, just in case Sherlock tried to contact him. He never did. Sound asleep, probably.

When John opened the door upon returning to Baker Street, the first thing he heard was the sound of water running. As he climbed the stairs, a weak voice called out,

"John? Is that you?"


	8. Add Injury to Insult

**Note: This chapter contains a naked Sherlock, but there's nothing descriptive nor suggestive about it. Just thought I'd give you fair warning. It also gets a little Johnlocky afterwards, but no worse than some of the comments made in the show, so…should still be pairing-free.**

**VIII : Add Injury to Insult**

John stood on the threshold, dumbfounded. The voice called again,

"John?"

"I'm here, Sherlock!" he shouted hastily, and ran towards the sound. The running water and the voice were coming from the bathroom. John knocked. "Sherlock, are you in there? Do you need help?"

He waited for a response with his heart in his mouth. When none came, he put a hand to the doorknob and announced, "Alright, I'm coming in…"

At first glance, the bathroom appeared empty, but the shower was running. "Sherlock?" Gingerly, pulled the curtain back a few inches.

"Nice of you to show up," Sherlock smiled weakly. He lay on his back on the bathtub floor, stark naked, with ice cold water cascading down on him. "M-Mind switching that off?"

John turned off the shower head. "Why on _EARTH_—"

"I fell." He explained through chattering teeth. "And couldn't stand up to turn it off. The hot water ran out after about half an hour, unfortunately."

"What? How long have you been lying here?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Dunno." He glanced down at himself and reddened. John handed him a towel to cover up with, trying not to blush too. He knew how to be professional, of course, and there was nothing uncomfortable about the human body, but it was different when it was someone you knew outside of the office. And even more so when that someone was Sherlock.

"How did you fall, anyway?"

Sherlock's concentration didn't seem to be at peak performance. "Just the…dizziness." He grumbled. "Same as this morning."

"And it didn't occur to you to take a bath instead, if you could barely stand?"

"Shut up."

"Well, let's get you out, then." He took Sherlock's hand, which was wrinkled and waterlogged, and tried to offer support. Sherlock almost stood, then sank back down with a moan.

"What is it? Where does it hurt?"

Sherlock shut his eyes and whispered, "Nothing. It's nothing."

He looked Sherlock over carefully and noticed his right leg was swollen badly just above the ankle.

"Oh, god," he muttered to himself. "Why didn't you say—did this happen when you fell?" Sherlock nodded. John laid two fingers on the area as gently as he could, without applying any pressure, and Sherlock flinched as if he'd been struck.

"Damn it, John!"

"Sorry, sorry. Sherlock, that looks broken."

"Of course it's broken. I gathered that for myself some hours ago." Sherlock snapped. He was giving John a look that said, _Say what I think you're about to say and you die._

"You know we have to."

"No we don't!"

"Come on, I'll drive you to St. Bart's."

"No."

"Well, we need to do something, and I can't fix it myself this time."

"Yes, you can. You're a doctor."

"Not an orthopedist. And try as we might, I don't suppose even Mycroft could arrange for an X-Ray machine to be brought in here."

That was it. Mycroft.

"Well, here," he handed Sherlock a second towel. "Dry off as best you can, but don't move your leg any more than you have to. I'll go…see what I can do about the hospital."

Sherlock blotted his wet hair with the towel and then wrapped it around his shoulders, shivering. He could hear John in the next room.

"Um, a bit of a predicament, yes. He's got an injured leg – probably broken – and I can't convince him to go get it checked out." A pause. "I thought he might be more willing if you were to pull some strings…you know, just to help things along…"

John was in Sherlock's bedroom, pinning the phone against his ear with his shoulder as he rifled through the dresser, trying to find something comfortable and suitably warm for Sherlock to put on. On the other end, Mycroft sighed. "What's he done to himself?"

"Well, he came down with the flu earlier this week, and—"

"Yes, I know about that. But the injury?"

_How did Mycroft know about…never mind._ John pulled a pair of baggy sweatpants out of the drawer as he briefly described the incident. Mycroft sighed again.

"Alright, just give me 12 minutes." Then he hung up before John could say thank you.

John returned to Sherlock with a set of clothes. "There you are. Someone's coming to pick us up in 12 minutes."

"Told my brother on me, have you?" Sherlock gave John the most murderous glare he could manage with his teeth still chattering.

"Figured he could help make things a little more comfortable for you. Lesser of two evils, you know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled the jumper over his head. It was a rather ugly one that he'd hidden at the very bottom of his bureau for a good reason. It was the color of snot. Ridiculous. Warm, but ridiculous.

Sherlock only had to lift his bad leg for a moment to wriggle into his shorts, but the sweatpants were a rather more complicated affair. He pulled the left leg on, then bunched up the right leg in his hands. Biting his lip until it bled, he made himself pull up the right leg.

"You've got to have…" Sherlock hissed under his breath. "Pain meds…_somewhere_ in this flat."

John shook his head sadly. "Just hang on a little longer, Sherlock. I don't know what they'll want to give you at the hospital. Other than your leg, do you feel alright?"

"Unsurprisingly, my capacity for pain seems entirely absorbed by the most pertinent injury, and the various other bruises I believe I may have are quite forgotten."

John might have laughed at his deadpan tone if didn't feel so bad. He wished Mycroft's people would hurry up.

It was, in fact, precisely twelve minutes later that a knock came at the door. But the person knocking did not actually wait for John to get up and answer it, and a man and a woman met him in the hallway, wheeling a yellow ambulance gurney beside them. It took all the combined effort of all four of them to get Sherlock onto it – which Sherlock despised. John was alright, he had charge of the injured leg and moved it as gently as humanly possible, but it was the strangers' hands steadying his shoulders that made his skin crawl. He was immensely thankful when he sat back against the padded black frame. He took exception to being strapped in, and luckily they didn't force the issue.

"Do you want me to come with you?" John asked, straightening up. Sherlock goggled at him like that was the stupidest question ever.

"You're to come if you want, Dr. Watson." Said the woman. "There's room in the vehicle."

So it was decided. Mycroft's people had a van out front that seemed to have one of the back seats removed to make space for the gurney. Which was especially good because it meant John could sit directly next to Sherlock.

"You'll never be able to tell this story, you know." Said Sherlock as they drove.

"Why not?"

"Well, don't you always say? People. Talking. Us. In the bathroom." Sherlock shuddered through a cheeky grin.

"Oh, whatever." John blushed.

Silence followed. John got up his courage to ask quietly, "What is it about hospitals? Not needles, is it?" John found it hard to imagine Sherlock afraid of something like needles, but he knew it was quite common. He'd been squeamish about them himself through most of high school. College and then definitely the army sort of stamped that out of him.

"I habitually injected cocaine throughout my teenage years, and I've _told_ you that. Do you honestly think this has anything to do with needles?"

"What, then?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Just…doctors in general make me uncomfortable. You being the exception." That's as far as Sherlock was willing to say, but it didn't quite do justice. For someone who was used to analyzing, deducing things by studying other people, it was incredibly humiliating to have people studying him. He always felt like he was under a microscope. Revolting.

The car pulled in to the lot of some private hospital John didn't recognize, and together they unloaded Sherlock and wheeled him inside.

"Mr. Holmes?" asked the man behind the desk as if he'd been expecting them. Sherlock nodded. "You can head right on in that room there, and we'll get you ready for x-rays in a moment."

**Thanks again for all the reviews – you guys are awesome! This chapter sort of took things in a different direction than the previous ones, so I hope it's still alright. And I'll just let you know, I have a grand total of two hospital experiences myself, and one of them I was mostly unconscious for, so I don't know too much about them. There are likely to be inaccuracies, so anyone with greater knowledge than I is welcome to point them out.**


	9. A Scale of 1 to 10

**A big thanks to Forgelove and PBJelliTime for their advice/help with this chapter – it was a hard one for me to write. You guys are awesome! 3**

**I'm going to reiterate what I mentioned before – hospital scenes are not my forte and I felt very stiff writing this, so constructive criticism is most welcome if anyone cares to share it. **

**IX : A Scale of 1 to 10**

A nurse appeared from around the corner, introduced herself as Emily, and showed them down the hallway. Mycroft's cronies bid them good-bye at the door, so John accompanied Sherlock alone. The room was near the end of the hall. It was plain and professional looking, except for the walls, which were painted a soft green and a wallpaper border a few centimeters from the ceiling sporting pictures of galloping horses.

Emily showed John the lever to raise the gurney up to the level of the bed, so Sherlock could scoot from one to the other with only minimal assistance. He cringed, but didn't protest as she slid two pillows under the leg to elevate it. John mentally slapped himself for not thinking to grab a pillow on his way out of the flat – they ought to have tried to prop up the injury in the car, too.

"Mr. Holmes, I need to get a set of vitals from you, and then we should be good to head up to x-rays." Sherlock was obliged to uncross his arms (which he'd kept tightly folded to match his stormy scowl) so she could put on a blood pressure cuff. As she checked his blood pressure, and heartrate, John noticed she skipped all the usual questions that he might have used to make small talk – asking what happened and so on. Perhaps Mycroft had a hand in that as well, or if Sherlock had been here before the staff might have already learned how their well-intentioned queries would be received.

Sherlock was mildly surprised when rather than use a thermometer, she just rolled a little handheld device across his forehead until a number flashed on the tiny machine on the table. Neither Sherlock nor John could see the number, but they couldn't miss the nurse's frown.

"How long ago did you say this happened?" She asked. Sherlock had recrossed his arms and did not seem inclined to answer, so John spoke up.

"It was twenty-five minutes ago that I found him, but it happened some time before that. Sherlock, do you remember—"

"Found him where?"

Sherlock glowered. John ignored him. "In the shower."

"A cold shower?" John nodded. Emily's unease seemed to lessen. "Ah, well that would account for it. Your temp's a bit low. I'll get you some blankets, sound alright?" There was a cabinet on the other side of the room. From within it, she drew two cotton hospital blankets and moved to drape one around his shoulders.

"I don't want that." Sherlock's first words since entering the building. He pushed her hand away.

"Well, I'd like you to bundle up a bit, you're still recovering from—"

Sherlock snatched the blanket and put it on himself, muttering something that sounded like "_Bug off_,"

"He doesn't mean to be rude." Said John quickly, feeling ever more like the parent of a wayward child. "He's just—"

"It's fine." She smiled. "I'll be right back."

"What are they so worried about?" Sherlock complained. He was gritting his teeth – still trying to keep them from chattering, John suspected.

"Hypothermia." John replied honestly. Sherlock almost laughed.

"I was taking a shower, not building an igloo!"

"I'm not joking. It's more common than you'd think. Urban hypothermia, they call it. People assume hypothermia only happens when you get shipwrecked in the ocean or stuck in the snow, but an hour and a half in a cold shower could definitely do it. It's mild, I'm sure, probably only a degree or two low, but it's important to warm up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John's patience was beginning to wear thin, but he reminded himself what a trial this was for Sherlock. That man did not take well to being restricted by anything, did he? And maybe a certain level of physical pain gave one a right to be a bastard. John saw green and purple bruises beginning to form around Sherlock's swollen ankle. Maybe.

The nurse returned with a tall, sandy-haired doctor behind her. He introduced himself as Dr. Morris and cut straight to the chase.

"So Mr. Holmes, how would you describe your level of pain right now, on a scale of one to ten?"

John supressed a groan. He found this method a little absurd himself, and if he was slightly cynical, he knew he'd better brace himself for Sherlock's reaction.

"And how, precisely, does one quantify pain into ten categories? What's a one? What constitutes a ten?"

"Think of one as no pain at all, and ten the worst pain you can imagine."

"But the worst pain I can imagine is by no means the worst pain possible. And it's all in perception. When one stubs one's toe, for about thirty seconds that _is_ the worst pain imaginable. But someone on the brink of, say, burning to death would view things rather differently. And—"

"The faster you answer, the faster you get painkillers, Sherlock." Said John dryly.

"I fail to see how this is an accurate diagnostic tool." John raised an eyebrow at him. "I don't know…three?"

"Are you downplaying it because you're an overly-proud clot?"

"Seven?"

Dr. Morris nodded. "What do you say we get you started on some anesthetics intravenously before we head up to radiology?"

"What are you waiting for?" Sherlock snarled. He sat still while the back of his hand was disinfected and the needle slid in, and the cannula secured with tape. Once ready, they wheeled Sherlock's bed into an enormous elevator at the end of the hall and rode it up to Radiology on the second floor. John waited with his back against the wall and listened Sherlock argue with the X-Ray Tech behind the closed door. He calmed down after the first few minutes, and John presumed the painkillers were kicking in. When it was over, John was told they were taking Sherlock back downstairs and the doctor would be in to speak with them when he'd reviewed the x-rays.

* * *

"…a complete fracture, disaligned, but mostly clean. Unless there are complications, it should heal fine without surgery." Dr. Morris was saying. He was holding two fingers against the inside of Sherlock's right ankle, taking his pulse. "Now, could you pull your trousers down to your knees for just a moment?"

With one hand engaged with the drip, Sherlock struggled a bit to shimmy them down one-handed. The doctor felt for a pulse on the inside of Sherlock's thigh and nodded approvingly. "You can pull them back up now. There's no artery damage that I can tell. That was the one concern we had looking at the x-rays."

Sherlock nodded sedately. John was surprised how sluggish anesthetics made him.

"I'm going to realign the bone and splint it, and we'll get it casted as soon as we can."

Sherlock nodded again.

"Okay, I'm going to start now. You might feel some pain."

Even in his drugged state, Sherlock's eyes bugged as Dr. Morris firmly pushed on his ankle to realign the broken bone. John flinched on his behalf. The doctor bound the leg with a velcro splint of hard plastic, and scribbled some things on Sherlock's chart.

"I'll see you soon, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

The putting on of the cast itself was not much of an ordeal. Sherlock was still spaced-out and it didn't seem to hurt him as they wrapped his leg from heel to knee in cotton bandage and covered it with a layer of wet, strong-smelling green fiberglass. After about twenty minutes, it had hardened into a cast. Sherlock was mildly interested in the cast, picked at it when no one was looking, and even permitted John to scrawl on his name in sharpie.

A nurse came to check his vitals and change the drip, and noted that his temperature was no longer low – quite the opposite, in fact.

"A low-grade fever. 38.2. We have influenza written on the chart here," she said. "Unless there are other symptoms, we'll assume that's the cause. The doctor said, though, that he'd like to admit you for the night, just for observation, Mr. Holmes."

"No, we're going home, right John?" said Sherlock.

"If they want you to stay, then we're staying." Said John firmly.

"Are you ever going to take my side?"

"Maybe the day your side is in your own best interest."

And Sherlock didn't feel like arguing further, so it was decided. But John regretted his snarky remarks when it got late, and it was time to have a serious conversation.

"Do you want me to stay the night here with you, Sherlock?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not a _child_."

"No, of course you're not. But if it would make you more comfortable—"

"Go."

So John took a cab home, explained everything to the very perplexed Mrs. Hudson, and crawled into his own bed, realizing for the first time how tired he was. He dropped off within fifteen minutes.

**We're getting down to it...only one more chapter to go! I'm a little sad to be done with this one, it's been a ton of fun to write...**


	10. In which its Hard to be Smug on Crutches

**X : In which it is Hard to be Smug on**** Crutches**

Sherlock heard voices quietly arguing outside his door about visiting after hours, but he couldn't discern to whom they belonged. He thought perhaps John had come back. When the dispute was won and the door opened, he couldn't have been more disappointed.

"Get out."

"Hello to you too, small brother."

"Leave, Mycroft."

God, if there was _one_ person on the planet Sherlock _didn't_ want to talk to right now… He strode over, ice blue eyes carefully taking in the cast, the blankets, the IV drip. He deposited a canvas bag neatly at the foot of the bed. "Fresh clothes, your toothbrush, a book, your mobile, and – which John insisted on including, goodness knows why – the flag pillow from your armchair. We packed it together." He explained.

"Why are you here?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "To see how you're doing. Why else?"

"As if you care." Sherlock scoffed.

"I don't", said Mycroft, perhaps a shade too defensively. "But I'd hate to think you'd got yourself into a mess – and it would upset Mother."

Sherlock reached for the bag and retrieved the flag pillow, pulling it onto his lap and hugging it sullenly like child. He glared hard at Mycroft. Mycroft glared back, but he could hardly compete. He turned towards the door. "Would you consent to text me tomorrow, if just to tell me how you are?"

"I would not. And you'll gather whatever information you please from one of your many cameras, no doubt."

Mycroft smiled. "Good night, Sherlock."

* * *

Sherlock was finding it hard to find sleep. For one thing, he was obliged to lie on his back because of the cast and the drip. As someone accustomed to curling up on his side, that alone was difficult. The pain was only somewhat deadened by the medication – never eradicated, really, but partially drowned out, like an high-pitched sound made bearable by a cloud of white noise. And all the little things that reminded him he wasn't at home – the smell of disinfectant, the IV cannula, the pulse monitor clipped to his index finger, – were keeping him up. Well, he could bury his face in the pillow, which smelled like home, and he couldn't do anything about the IV, but…

After earsplitting alarms, two nurses rushing to the room to find out why _his heart had stopped_, the reapplication of the pulse monitor, and a stern lecture, Sherlock was no closer to sleeping than before. He could tell he was nearly due for another dose of narcotics, too, because the painful throbbing sensation was creeping up again.

He must have fallen asleep somehow, because the next thing he knew he was jolted awake by the temperature probe sliding across his forehead again. He opened his eyes halfway.

"Sorry to wake you," said the nurse with a little smile. "Your numbers all look good, so I'm going to make a note here that they don't need to disturb your sleep next round."

He nodded his thanks while she changed the drip, and he welcomed the cool sensation of the medicine flowing into his veins. In just moments, the familiar sensation of heavy numbness redoubled, and Sherlock drifted off again.

* * *

"Are you awake, Sherlock?"

Sherlock had not been awake precisely, but close enough to it that the voice roused him. He didn't bother to open his eyes to grumble, "An idiotic question. How would I answer if I was not?"

He heard John's laugh and opened his eyes, sitting up as much as he could. John was cheerful, but looked pale and rather as if he hadn't got much sleep. Sherlock was perturbed by that, though he couldn't fathom why. Was his happiness somehow tied to John's well-being? What a ludicrous idea.

"Anyway," John was saying, "I know it's early, but I wanted to check in on you before I go to work."

Oh, right. It was Monday. Darn. "What time is it?"

"Seven thirty. Do you want some breakfast?"

"Ugh. Hospital food."

"Ah, see, that's what you've got me for!" John chuckled, producing a paper plate bundled in saran wrap from his bag. "Though I can't take all the credit. Mrs. Hudson baked them."

Sherlock lifted the corner of the plastic and immediately smelled blueberries. They'd packed him three blueberry scones and a little dish of jam and clotted cream to spread on them.

"And the coffee's actually from the cafeteria, but I don't think that counts as 'hospital food'," John continued, setting a Styrofoam cup and two packets of sugar on his armrest.

"You…you didn't have to do this." Mumbled Sherlock guiltily as he nibbled on a scone. It was still warm.

"Don't mention it." John shrugged. "Do you need anything?" Sherlock shook his head. "Alright, well, there's plenty of people around to ask if you do. See you this evening — at home, hopefully!" John patted his wrist in a mildly annoying way and disappeared.

Sherlock sighed and pulled his book out of the canvas bag that Mycroft had left. It sufficed to amuse him while he ate until Dr. Morris and Emily arrived. The nurse removed the IV cannula and slid the needle from his hand, swiftly pressing a tiny round plaster over the puncture, while the doctor examined Sherlock's leg and cast with a thoughtful nod. They offered him oral painkillers, which he keenly accepted, and talked of discharging him by lunchtime. A physical therapist came in an hour later to teach him how to walk on crutches. It took Sherlock a few tries to get the hang of it, but soon he was striding up and down the corridor with the crutches thwacking against the linoleum floor. By lunchtime, he was more than ready to go home.

John was busy again. He had been tired before he started, and all day he didn't seem able to catch a break. Flu season had apparently decided to start with a bang, he thought to himself, because he hadn't had a moment to breathe since his shift began, and soon he was fighting an atrocious headache. Against his better judgment, John had decided to leave his mobile on. He was prepared to ignore any number of pointless distractions from Sherlock, but as it happened, he only received four texts throughout the entire day.

**Everyone in agreement that it is unwise to send S home with prescription narcotics. Untrustworthy. They want him on an ibuprofen regimen instead. Thoughts? MH**

**Sounds like a plan. –JW**

**On my way home.  
SH**

**That's great, Sherlock. But tell me, am I going to have to physically collect and hide every coat hanger, ruler and pencil in the flat, or can you promise me you're not going to try to scratch under your cast? –JW**

**Hahaha.  
SH**

And then, just as he was hanging up his lab coat,

**At Motor Museum with Lestrade & co. Come as soon as possible.  
SH**

John grinned.

* * *

The pain was manageable. The bone was healing. All that remained of the original flu was a lingering cough that he was self-medicating with copious amounts of honeyed tea, and at last, John had arrived. He'd got a cab straight from work the the museum, that wonderful man. Sherlock's content was complete. And now, to top things off, he turned dramatically to the expectant officers with a trace of a grin and announced,

"He's dead."

"How can you possibly—" Lestrade spluttered.

"He's dead, body's probably at his sister's house. Look at the state of this keyboard, it's obvious the lady with the raincoat killed him."

Sherlock looked tried to look smug, even though it wasn't quite the same between the bright green cast that broadcasted his human weakness to the world and the lack of an astonished voice to cry, _"Amazing!"_. In fact, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure where John had disappeared to at the moment.

"Oh, pick your jaws up of the floor, won't you? I'm confident you boys can take it from here. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to find my blogger."

And with that, Sherlock left, crutches thwacking against the floor, and thinking happily that everything was back to normal.

**The End!**

**Thank you all BUNCHES for your readership, reviews and support, they mean a lot to me! As I mentioned at the top, only a short epilogue remains (and I've had this planned since the beginning, but some of you smarty pants' have already guessed or hinted at what it's about)**


	11. Epilogue: The Worst Patients

**Epilogue : The Worst Patients**

John was rudely awoken by three fingers prodding his arm. He tried to swat the hand away, but it grabbed onto his wrist and held fast.

"John, wake up,"

"'_m_ awake," John growled. He was feeling as if he'd been forcefully wrenched from a cold, painful dream into a colder, more painful reality. Through bleary vision he saw Sherlock perched on the far edge of his bed, leaning over him. He reluctantly rolled over, causing a soaked washcloth to fall from his forehead with a splat. "What's this nonsense all about?"

"You're running a temperature. Even in sleep, your cheeks were flushed and you felt warm – I mean, _really_ warm. And your pulse was fast, another indicator of fever. You kept shivering and trying to gather the blankets around you, which means it's still rising."

"Just let me _sleep_," John groaned, and buried his head back into the pillow. He was in no mood for deductions.

"I want you to take your temperature first. Now, knowing you, you've got your medical kit somewhere easily accessible, likely in a drawer or closet shelf. Care to save me the trouble of searching?"

"Bottom drawer of the bureau right beside you."

Sherlock flicked on the light to look for it. John whimpered and yanked the covers over his face.

"Ugh, Sherlock, turn it _off_,"

"I will in a moment. If your experience is to be at all comparable to mine, which is likely, I'm sure you're moderately photophobic right now."

"Oddly enough, I'd figured that out." John's voice was muffled by the blankets

Sherlock located the white plastic box and fished John's thermometer out. He flicked off the light so John could emerge and put it under his tongue.

"You know, you didn't have to get me up for this. The fever's not really high enough to do damage."

"You're the one who tells me not to talk while it's registering." Said Sherlock pointedly. If looks could kill, Sherlock probably would have dropped dead right there. But he was right, of course, so John was obliged to sit in sullen silence until the thermometer beeped. He whipped it out of his mouth to read it before Sherlock could, and was not too surprised to find it read 39.2 degrees. He felt bloody awful, with pressure in his sinuses and shivers racking up his spine.

"Can I…ah, do you…" Sherlock looked extremely uncomfortable. Sort of like a lost puppy. "What do you need?"

Oh. Wow. John was uncomfortable with that too. It was unusual and disconcerting to think of Sherlock looking after anyone but himself.

"You don't have to play nursemaid, Sherlock. I'm not that sick."

Sherlock laughed uneasily. "Yes, I'm sure that's why you were vomiting in the Motor Museum toilet. And twice on the side of the road coming home." For a moment he looked as if he might say more, but he thought better of it. "So, um, acetaminophen, probably?"

John wrung out the sopping washcloth and pressed it to the back of his neck. "Yeah, please. And a glass of water?"

Sherlock nodded, got up and hobbled away with his crutches. John could hear his heavy footfalls on the stairs. Sherlock was still learning to navigate them without the use of both legs.

"Oh, shit," muttered John. He'd forgotten about the crutches, and the stairs. "No, wait up, Sherlock!" He dragged himself out of bed and followed his flatmate. "No, you don't have to—"

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"I can get it myself," said John. He clung tight to the railing, aware of Sherlock's gaze staring from behind, and inched down the staircase. He kept one hand on the wall and worked his way to the kitchen. To his surprise, it was not empty.

"Well, look who's out of bed!" said Mrs. Hudson in a motherly tone. "How do you feel, John?"

"Like a tractor-trailer is parked on my chest, to be honest." John managed a weak smile. The back of Mrs. Hudson's hand was pressed to his forehead before he knew what was happening.

"Oh my, you're burning up, love."

"I know. I came down to get meds for it."

"That's good. Sherlock didn't wake you, did he? I told him not to hover."

"Oh, he woke me all right." John's annoyance was only halfhearted. Mrs. Hudson wondered how much he remembered of the previous evening. By the time Sherlock had half-carried him into the flat, John had been too feverish to be entirely lucid. Together they had got some medicine into him, but it had come straight back up. More than once they'd considered taking him to the hospital. Mrs. Hudson remembered Sherlock standing , perplexed, in the bathroom doorway at first, but he'd slowly made his way over and began to rub John's back with stiff, awkward motions as he retched. It seemed to calm John down, at least.

"Do you feel like you could keep down some tea?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "And maybe some toast?"

"Just tea, please,"

"All right, it'll just be a minute. Now back to bed with you, dear." She gave him a gentle nudge towards the staircase.

Climbing back up proved to be a little more difficult than climbing down. By the time John reached the top he felt thoroughly worn out, which was frustrating. When he went back to his room Sherlock was sprawled across his bed, which was more frustrating.

"Sherlock," he groaned. "What are you doing?"

"I'm doing many things. Lying down. Blinking. Breathing. Talking to you."

"Don't be a smartarse. Why are you in my bed?"

"It was the nearest available surface. This large piece of plaster glued to my leg is somewhat cumbersome to drag around."

"Sherlock," said John, annoyed, "I want my bed. Go lie down in your own."

Sherlock shrugged and scooted over to the wall side, so that he was only taking up half the bed.

"Oh, no."

"I'm in quite a bit of pain right now, Dr. Watson, and I imagine neither of us wants to go all the way downstairs. Get over it."

Oh, who cared what people talked about, anyway? Sherlock was fully clothed and John was wearing pajama trousers. Sherlock was on top of the covers and John planned on crawling in to them. And face it, he was just too exhausted to give a shit. John got in the bed.

As he lay back, John thought of something. "This means you're going to have to take yourself to Physical Therapy today, Sherlock."

Sherlock smirked, "Oh, given your state, I think I'm more needed here, actually."

"Nice try. You're going or I'm calling Mycroft to drag you there. And you won't be able to kick or scream much with that leg."

"You're hilarious."

"I'm being dead serious." John laughed.

When Mrs. Hudson appeared with mugs of tea for all three of them and perched on the end of the bed, both John and Sherlock sat up to accept their mugs with grateful smiles. Just as John held his to his lips, Sherlock barked, "Wait!" so suddenly John nearly splashed the tea all over himself. "Did you take the medicine?"

John could have smacked himself in the forehead. "Damn. Forgot all about it."

"Go take some now."

"I just got comfortable here," John complained. "I will later, Sherlock, don't nag."

"Sherlock's right, John – but don't you move, I'll fetch it." Said Mrs. Hudson. Then she added with a grin, "They say doctors make the worst patients!"

"The very worst." Said John, nodding as his sipped his tea. "Except for Sherlocks, of course."

**Another heartfelt thank-you to everyone who's supported me throughout this story. I'm immensely sad to finish it, but a second, more creative sick!fic is already in the works. If you have ideas/suggestions/headcanons, feel free to shoot them past me! (if you don't mind me using them in writing, of course. I'll warn you that once an idea is planted in my head, I'm liable to forget where it came from and whether I'm supposed to use it or not!)**


End file.
